


12th Of November

by c3mf



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-14
Updated: 2012-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The 12th of November is <i>not</i> a brilliant day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	12th Of November

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Cabin Pressure fic meme [here](http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=3954642#cmt3954642)

There weren’t many things Arthur actively disliked, but the 12th of November was one of them. It was never a brilliant day. He had learned a long time ago, even if the sun was shining and the sky had just the right amount of clouds, the minute he woke up, everything was… It was… _not brilliant._

No, this year wouldn’t be like the last, or the year before that, or the year before that. He told the tiny, nagging whispers to shut up because this day was going to be just fine. More than fine, even. He was going to fly to Oslo with Mum and Douglas and Skip and it would be a _cracking_ trip.

The back of his neck itched like someone was watching and he scrubbed at his hair. Dates on the wall chart didn’t make people jump. Skip wouldn’t jump. Douglas would just laugh it all away. This year was going to be different, he told himself and repeated it until he nearly believed it. He plastered a smile on his face and avoided the phone all morning.

~*~

They landed in Oslo without a hitch. No diversions, no tech failures. Mum was so pleased about the whole thing that she agreed that having a lunch which didn’t come packaged in little cardboard boxes was in order (although Arthur didn’t mind lunch that came in little boxes. If you bought enough you could build a tabletop barricade with them after you’d eaten).

As he was wandering round in duty-free, waiting for the chaps to finish up the paperwork, he considered that maybe the day was looking up. His mobile chirped. Probably Mum, wondering where he had disappeared to. He answered without looking at the ID.

“Hello, Arthur. Your witch of a mother decide to give up the ghost yet?”

Arthur’s stomach bottomed out. “H-hi, Dad.”

Just like last year, and the year before that, and the year before that, the 12th of November was not a brilliant day.

~*~

Arthur sat on the closed lid of the toilet and scrubbed furiously at his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. Full grown men did not get upset because of a voice on a phone line over 700 miles away. Why was he so stupid? _Stupid stupid stupid._

His mobile trilled in his pocket. He sniffled and didn’t answer. He was stupid for that as well. He was stupid for _everything_ , he knew that. But knowing didn’t make it easier, and knowing didn’t ever stop the shouting or the sniping or the berating. He was so stupid he still cried even though he _knew_ it would only make things worse. It _always_ made things worse. But he was an idiot and the tears came anyway.

The door opened and he jerked straight, breath catching in his throat. He went as quiet and as still as he could, just like when he was a kid, hiding in the bottom of his wardrobe and covering his ears so he didn’t have to hear his parents’ screaming.

“Arthur?”

The sight of Skip’s shoes under the door made Arthur’s chest go tight. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop the tears, only they didn’t stop, they spilled down his cheeks and he couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“Arthur?” Skip’s voice wasn’t quite right. It was high and sharp and quick. Worried. “Arthur, answer me.”

But he couldn’t. His nose was starting to run and his eyes were itchy and he was shaking all over and he just _couldn’t…_

The door rattled. “Arthur, open the door,” Skip told him firmly. “Or I’ll… I’ll climb over it.”

That wasn’t a good idea. As stupid as Arthur was, even he knew that. The door was rickety and the hinges were so flaked with rust it was a miracle they kept the door up at all. If Skip tried to climb over it, the door would come tumbling down, and Skip would get hurt and it would be all Arthur’s fault because he was an idiot, and idiots were the reason everything in the world always went so wrong. Sniffling, he dragged his sleeve across his face and fumbled the latch open.

Skip was there before Arthur could do anything else, hands dropping onto Arthur’s shoulders and leaning down to crowd out Arthur’s blurry vision. Skip took one look at Arthur and his face crumpled. “God,” he breathed. Arthur let himself be pulled into a hug. “What happened?”

Arthur just shook his head, buried his face in the crook of Skip’s neck and took a deep, shuddering breath. Skip smelled like laundry soap and starch and stale recycled air from GERTI. It helped.

Skip didn’t hug Arthur very often, but when he did, Skip’s hugs were really good. Brilliant, even. Arthur curled his arms round Skip’s waist. Skip tucked Arthur’s head under his chin and hugged Arthur until the tears dried up.

Afterwards, while Arthur stood at the sink and cleaned himself up, Skip listened patiently to his every word, face empty and fingers clenched tight.

Arthur wiped water from his face. “Don’t be angry, Skip. It’s not worth it.”

“You’re right.” Skip ripped off a length of paper towel and passed it to Arthur. “ _He_ isn’t.” The tightness melted from Skip’s shoulders. “Come on, then,” he said and held out a hand.

Arthur didn’t hesitate.

~*~

Skip held his hand all the way back to the crew lounge. Even when Mum barked at him for running off like a clot and Douglas grumbled about having searched the entire terminal _twice_ , Skip didn’t uncurl his fingers from Arthur’s hand until Arthur let go first.

There weren’t many things in the world Arthur actively disliked, but he wasn’t going to let the 12th of November be one of them anymore.


End file.
